No Roses for the Mafia Wife

The night before the wedding, Alexander finally returned.

He carried a garment bag. "Jo, Bella offered to help choose your dress. She has excellent taste."

Isabella emerged, holding another bag. Her smile was pure venom. "I’m your maid of honor, sis. Everyone will see how well the Conti and Moretti girls clean up."

Alexander beamed at her—a look of pure adoration I’d only seen directed at me in my most delusional moments.

My hands were steady as I unzipped the bag.

The dress inside was a mockery. Yellowed satin, cheap lace, with a long tear across the bodice. It smelled of mothballs and spite.

Isabella’s dress, however, was a masterpiece of ivory lace, beaded with pearls—more bridal than anything I’d ever owned.

"It’s beautiful," she sighed, spinning. "If only I had a tiara."

Alexander turned to me. "You have your mother’s heirloom tiara, don’t you? The one with the sapphires. You wouldn’t mind if Bella borrowed it?"

He stopped when he saw the ruined dress.

"What happened?"

Isabella’s eyes widened in feigned shock. "Oh no! It must have been that careless boutique!"

Alexander looked from her to me. Loyalty won—as it always did. "We’ll fix it. Don’t make a scene, Joanna."

As if I ever made scenes.

"It’s fine," I said, voice calm. "I’ll handle it."

The words felt like a vow—not to him, but to myself.

Isabella fetched a camera. "Let’s take a picture! For memory’s sake."

Alexander pulled me close. The flash blinded me—or maybe it was Isabella shoving past, her elbow jamming into my ribs. I stumbled, falling backward toward the wrought-iron hall tree.

"Joanna!" Alexander’s hand shot out.

But Isabella burst into tears—loud, dramatic sobs.

He froze, torn between catching me and comforting her.

I saw the decision in his eyes. His hand dropped. He turned away from my falling body to gather Isabella into his arms.

My head struck the iron with a sickening crack.

The world went white, then red.

"She’s so clumsy," Isabella sobbed. "I’ll find you a new dress, Joanna! I’ll search every boutique in the city!"

She ran out, Alexander following without a backward glance.

I lay there, blood trickling from my temple. The pain was sharp, clarifying.

On the wall, the countdown calendar read: [1 DAY].

I pushed myself up, walked to the calendar, tore off the final page.

Once, in my hopeful handwriting, it had said: “My wedding day. The beginning of everything.”

Now I crumpled it into a tight ball and let it fall.

Then I picked up the encrypted drive, slipped it into my pocket, and walked out without looking back.